


One Self Portrait

by tealvenetianmask



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 18:33:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tealvenetianmask/pseuds/tealvenetianmask
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim can’t stop thinking about Sherlock, pre-series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Self Portrait

Jim extended his hand to the redheaded business man, Sarbanes, and flashed a careful smile. “Jim Robson, PR representative. Pleased to meet you.”

Jim spoke quickly and enunciated. Too well, and he wondered whether the insurance company executives gathered in the conference room would even notice. That Jim Robson wanted to pass in the business world, he really did, but he was from a small town in the east, so he’d had to learn how to act and speak like a well educated Londoner. He tried too hard sometimes. Jim Robson couldn’t help it—he worked for an intimidating man. Would these people realize how he often straightened his suit jacket, on his way in, or how he glanced nervously past their faces as he spoke to them? One or two of them would surely pick up on the signs; they’d notice, at the most basic level, that he was afraid. Of something. Because if this was the representative, talking too fast, practically trembling in his chair, despite his best efforts, then Moriarty, the idea of Moriarty, must be a terrible force to reckon with.

It wasn’t the kind of case that Jim Moriarty usually went out of his way to attend to. No, this one was of the advantageous variety, the I-hack-into-a-few-computer-systems-and-move-some-money-around-and-then-we’ll-see-what-you-can-do-for-me sort. The kind he usually handled these days lying in his bed with his computer turned on its side. Boring, but good for business. But Sarbanes had asked for an in-person representative, Jim was between representatives. None of his men, at the moment were up to the task, and it really would be easier to go himself than to rush the hiring process. Besides, he hadn’t left his flat for nearly a week, and going out, and playing a part for a bit- that was the sort of thing he used to enjoy. 

There was once much more that he enjoyed. The work, especially when he could find himself an intriguing enough puzzle He liked working on a good puzzle. Putting on personas, becoming other people, playing with people. From time to time sex, and good food. But recently he’d been feeling often like he didn’t want anything. Or, as if nothing could satisfy his want. He’d been finding it hard to tell the difference. He was aware of desire, certainly, but it hardly mattered. As if the urges his body felt were nothing but floaters in his eyes. There was one thing, or one person, that still managed to speed up his heart rate, even merely by floating through his thoughts. But he wasn’t any closer to that than he’d been years ago, not really.

Sarbanes grinned widely as he shook Jim’s hand. His handshake was firm. A little too firm. It gave him away. Mr. Sarbanes was afraid. Ambivalent about the agreement after all. Well, Jim was just going to have to make him certain. But that thought was followed by that irksome feeling that this man and this agreement didn’t matter at all, that there was no challenge here. Perhaps he should have just stayed in. “It’s good to meet you, Mr. Robson!” Sarbanes released Jim’s hand, “is that your real name?”

Jim hesitated and darted his eyes toward the door. Because Robson hadn’t been working for Moriarty for long enough yet to have grown accustomed to questions like that. Robson the PR man would feel a bit uncomfortable openly representing Moriarty. Didn’t like being seen as the criminal mastermind’s collaborator, or worse, some sort of slave. No dignity in that.

Sarbanes took his seat directly to Jim’s left, at the head of the conference table, and brought his fist sharply down on the folder in front of him. “Oh, come on,” a twinge of irritation came through in his voice, “we all know who you work for.”

“It’s not my real name,” Jim gave a nod, and straightened his back in his chair, “but of course you understand that certain precautions must be taken, considering the services my employer provides.”

He glanced around the room and took in the reactions of the people gathered around the table. The man across from him was scratching nervously at his jacket-pocket. The woman down the row, unimportant in the company, opened her laptop computer in front of her. For notes, apparently. She was young, with shoulder-length blonde hair, and she wasn’t looking directly at Jim, or at anyone for that matter. Poor nervous dear. So they thought they could just have an underling take notes, at a meeting like this. Jim looked at the girl until she realized he was looking, and caught her eye. He shook his head slowly. “No notes,” he said, matter-of-fact, turning to Sarbanes.

Sarbanes nodded rapidly. So eager to get this right. Smart after all; he knew he was dealing with a dangerous man. 

Sarbanes cleared his throat. “Welcome, Mr. Robson.. and your employer—you said he’d be listening in?”

“Oh… yes,” Jim raised his eyebrows as if a bit surprised and then nodded at his cell phone which sat on the table in front of him, “it’s been recording since I walked in.”

He’d set it to record and stream back to his computer. These people wouldn’t check his phone. They wouldn’t dare. But even so, Jim had learned by then to account for the potential fluke, even if the probability was low. 

“Alright!” Sarbanes brought his hands together in what seemed to be a poor attempt at looking pleased by this new information. He glanced around the room before continuing. “Mr. Robson and Mr. Moriarty, as I’ve informed you, all of the executives gathered in this room have all agreed that hiring your assistance is our best chance of surviving the recession. We’ve all signed an agreement not to discuss what goes on in this room, and we can assure you that everything you say here will remain confidential. 

Jim glanced at the miniscule camera that he’d had planted in the top corner of the window, directly ahead, and blinked decisively, signaling his employee to send him a text. His phone gave a decisive beep, just loud enough to stop Sarbanes from talking and get the attention of every set of eyes in the room. 

“Sorry! It’s him!” Jim fumbled his phone as he lifted it and looked at the screen. “He says..” Jim fidgeted in his seat a little for good measure, “he says if any of you speak of this, the agreement you signed and your jobs will be the least of your worries,” his voice went a bit stilted, and he peered up at them for a moment as if horribly embarrassed before looking back at his phone, “worry about your homes. Worry about your children. I’ve read up on each and every one of your families, and I know exactly where they are right at this moment.”

Jim swallowed and blinked, “Go on… Mr. Sarbanes.”

This used to be the fun part, waiting to see when they would realize the extent to which events had already spiraled out of their control. Watching them used to make him positively giddy, because every time he found that he could predict nearly the exact moment when it would fully dawn on them, when they would break. But as Sarbanes went on to talk and talk about the logistics of the agreement, the exorbitant payment that Moriarty could expect, pretending, with such fervor that everything was mutually advantageous and all of that, Jim felt nothing. He could never bring himself to feel anything in response to this kind of shit anymore, this dull, repetitive game. He let his mind wander a bit, because of course, nothing new would be said. All he could think about was Sherlock Holmes; that mind, the sound of his voice, and the way his eyes were like fire. He wished he could see at that moment where Sherlock was, and what he was doing. 

__________________________________________________________

Jim had thought, for half his life, that all he wanted from Sherlock was to be looked at, to be seen in return. Sherlock would not see his mind as magic, like his parents and teachers always used to suggest, but as something extraordinary in that it made perfect sense, by someone whose own mind worked in precisely the same way. He’d imagined that they would just sit and watch each other think; they’d look across a comfortable but very small space, and see: they’d both see everything.

But the years weathered on. Jim’s crimes grew more elaborate, more complex, and Sherlock solved one from time to time. Jim knew enough from monitoring the man’s life that he enjoyed every second of those cases, and knew that Sherlock suspected a larger pattern, that someone, someone very talented was behind all of it. But having a vague idea of himself planted in Sherlock’s mind wasn’t enough, not really. Sometimes Jim wanted to shout across the space between them, across all of existence. I thought you saw me. I thought that when you realized Carl’s shoes were gone, you knew I existed. I thought I wasn’t alone in this world. Do you even know how that feels, Sherlock? To think you might not be alone?

But to say any of it, out loud, to Sherlock Holmes? The man would just scoff. Even as a boy, Sherlock Holmes would have turned away. The whole thing would have just embarrassed a Holmes boy. 

_______________________________________________________

A year ago, feeling hellishly down on the matter, Jim had gotten a few cameras installed in Sherlock’s cluttered little flat. When Sherlock called in to have a leak in his ceiling fixed, Jim paid off the workman to do it. 

Checking up on Sherlock bled into work; and sometimes Jim wondered whether there was really a difference between the two: Sherlock had sparked his decision to turn this skill set he had into a profession anyway.

Anything where Sherlock’s voice registered was recorded for later and sent directly to Jim’s computer. And oh that man could talk. Jim loved the way that Sherlock’s voice sped up when he was close to figuring something out, and when he was frustrated. He loved the way the man’s whole face came alive whenever he was working on something that fascinated him; he was delighted by his own thoughts. Jim once felt that way too.

And then once in a while, late at night or early in the morning when Jim was half asleep, he’d stop hearing words and thoughts and become entranced by the sound of Sherlock’s voice alone. He fell asleep to it on the sofa a week ago, and slept through the night. It was the best sleep he’d had recently, and when he woke up he felt this odd sense that he wasn’t alone. As if he’d slept all night with someone beside him. That wasn’t even something he knew he wanted. But his room was as empty as ever and once Jim gained full consciousness he checked his computer. The tape had run out, and he couldn’t even remember what Sherlock had been talking about. 

He sat on the edge of the sofa for a while, and the more he thought about it, the more impossible it was that they would ever be close, like that. He couldn’t even picture a conversation with Sherlock. Only watching. And to touch, well, to move his thumb over that porcelain cheek, over surprisingly soft skin, and pause at Sherlock’s lips and feel his breathing. Well, Jim wasn’t sure he’d be able to survive that. He wasn’t sure anything would ever be the same again, and wouldn’t that be a type of apocalypse? But he much preferred that sudden death by lightening to the slow way that turning over boring problems, again and again, and trying to entertain himself with boring people, who looked right past him, was killing him. No, he knew that he’d always choose lightening. 

Jim got up from the sofa and crawled into his bed, where he stayed for the remainder of the day and didn’t get a shred of work done. 

_________________________________________________________________

Jim allowed Sarbanes to ramble on about the logistics of what he believed to be their agreement for a good fifteen minutes before cutting him off with another blink toward the camera, and another resulting text. 

He raised his eyebrows in apology before pretending to read, “Mr. Sarbanes, you seem to be under the impression that this agreement is all about money. It’s not. If I’m scratching your back, you’re going to have to scratch mine. That’s just how this works.”

Jim glanced around the room, and saw on their faces that, yes. They understood now. He couldn’t bring himself to care in the least that he was winning… the same old routine.

He continued. “Do you think I don’t know where little Jamie goes to school? Or the rout Suzie Barber takes to work?” The girlfriend of the man down the table, but Jim didn’t make eye contact. “If you want your children to be safe, Mr. Sarbanes, if all of you want the people you love to be safe, my payment won’t stop at money. Anything I need, any access to files, or personnel, or anything… well. I plan on collecting it. Do you understand? I wouldn’t want to have done all this research for nothing, now.”

Jim peered around again, and they were trying so very hard not to panic, all of them, but their fears were showing through in the fidgeting, in the glances at the door, in the way that they weren’t looking at Jim at all. He had them, completely in his hold, trapped in their conference room. Yet he felt nothing. Nothing at all. “Yes, I think we all understand,” Sarbanes said, before glaring down at the floor, tight-lipped. 

They all shuffled out of the room without so much as a word to one another.

The secretary, the girl who’d opened her laptop at the beginning, stopped Jim at the door. “Mr. Robson… are you going to be okay?” 

“I… excuse me?” he looked attentively at the young woman’s face for the first time. Her eyes were honey brown, and so warm. 

“There was something—I’m sorry for prying… You just looked sad, for a moment. Sad and scared.” She looked down, avoiding his gaze. 

“I—yes I’ll be fine,” he lied, “I hope you have a nice day.” 

He did; he honestly hoped she’d have a lovely day, and something about the way she looked at him, actually looked, made him picture Sherlock’s face again, and feel as though he was suffocating. He had to get out of there, and fast. Because he couldn’t stay Jim Robson, the henchman, the tool, the bystander. Watching himself waste away slowly on projects like these.

He opened his computer as soon as he arrived back at his flat, and went straight to Sherlock’s website. Not that anything had updated. Jim always got notifications on his phone when Sherlock Holmes posted anything new on his website. But there was something nagging. Jim had sent him messages before, not the sort that he’d ever expected answers to; stupid comments, under the guise of a fan of Sherlock’s work, an obsessive. Jim wasn’t one to argue that he wasn’t a kind of fan, but he was more than that. He had to let Sherlock know somehow, that he was there. To bring about his own end, and stop wasting away.

He settled on no disguise, this time. Nothing to place himself in one category or another, to explain himself away. Anonymous: that way he could be no one and potentially everyone. He quite liked the thought of that. He worked out a few puzzles to send, difficult ones, that he himself quite enjoyed. Word and number games. And well… if that didn’t capture Sherlock’s attention he’d move on to some that certainly would. He’d let Sherlock trace a few grizzly and unusual murders all the way to their only possible source. He was ready for the end.


End file.
